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Business Insider
a day ago
- Entertainment
- Business Insider
The Coldplay 'kiss cam' situation underlines a lesson I learned as a 15-year-old cheerleader
Coldplay "kiss cam" participants: Welcome to Gen Z's world. By now, I'm sure you've heard of the viral " Coldplay" kiss cam saga. We can tease out the ethics of living in a surveillance state, but the reality is: Astronomer's former CEO just learned a hard lesson about leadership, social media, and the blurry line between public and private. Even when you think you're not being watched, you're being watched — and social media makes it easy for people to find out what you do after dark. For me, it's a story that feels familiar. You're always representing, even out of uniform As part of a generation raised with social media (I'm literally three years older than Facebook), certain lessons about digital presence were hammered into me from a young age. This particular lesson — that you're always representing the organization you're a part of, even in plain clothes — came at age 15, when I was a sophomore on the cheerleading team at my San Diego public high school. One morning before class, I was goofing around with a friend and fellow cheerleader at her house near our school. My friend picked up a bottle of Grey Goose vodka her mom kept on display, made a kissy face, and posed for the camera. I snapped a quick pic and uploaded it to my " finsta" — a second, more private Instagram account that was followed by 30 or so of my friends. I captioned it, "The real reason we take a free period." I thought I was being clearly sarcastic — I was a good student, I took AP classes, and I rarely went to parties. Obviously, my friend and I were not day drinking before honors pre-calc on a random Tuesday morning. So imagine my shock when my friend and I got called into a "crisis" meeting with our head cheerleading coach, and the facts of our transgression were laid before us. Someone's mom had apparently also seen the photo, which was then reported to our coach. The punishment was swift: My friend and I were both suspended from the team for two weeks, which meant we couldn't cheer at any games or perform in that week's pep rally. Our cheerleading program had strict standards around conduct, especially when we were in uniform. We were told we could not hug or kiss boys — even if they were our boyfriends — because we were representing the program, and there were already too many stereotypes about boy-crazy cheerleaders. The rules governing our conduct out of uniform, however, were a lot less clear. Even though we weren't wearing any cheer-related clothing in the Grey Goose photo, we were still representing the team, and therefore the school. I learned, at 15, you'll be seen as a representative of the organizations you're a part of — no matter what you're doing. Gen Z grew up being watched Knowingly posting something on social media is different from inadvertently being caught by a kiss cam. But the same principle applies: Actions taken in your personal life have the potential to spill over into your professional world. That's nothing new, but social media makes it even more pronounced — and it's knowledge that Gen Zers like me have literally grown up with. For now-former Astronomer CEO Andy Byron, the whole kiss cam blowup resulted in resignation from the company. Neither he nor the company's head of HR, who was also pictured with him, has spoken about the incident, although the interim CEO has called the ordeal "unusual and surreal." For me, it ended a little better. I was eventually reinstated and cheered through my remaining years of school. The ordeal, however, continued to creep into the back of my mind. As a junior, my peers and I heard horror stories of kids who'd had their Harvard acceptances rescinded because of their digital footprints. Later, in college, many of my friends who joined sororities told of sky-high standards around social media posting. Given Gen Z's knowledge of how easy it is to be exposed online, it's not surprising that we're engaging in online behaviors that seek more privacy. In a survey of more than 600 Gen Zers by the Gen Z consulting and research firm dcdx taken last year, more than 60% of respondents said they wanted their online presence to be more private, not less. "Finsta" culture, which was all over my high school in 2017, is still alive in the form of " close friends" stories or secret second accounts, which create another level of exclusivity among those who can see what you post. Adam Mosseri, Meta's head of Instagram, recently said that much of the action on the app was happening in DMs — not on users' grids or feeds. The problem is that, as I've learned, even what you think is private isn't private. You can't control who screenshots and shares what they see. "Coldplaygate" is emblematic of a world Gen Z has been living in essentially since we were born: On social media, your public and private lives aren't separate. They're one post away from crashing head-on.
Forbes
14-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Forbes
Behind The Gates: Rosewood London's Five-Star Summer Culinary Escape
Entrance to the Rosewood London Rosewood London While the highly anticipated opening of The Chancery Rosewood in the former US Embassy in London's Grosvenor Square finally arrives this September, the hotel brand's other London outpost - Rosewood London - continues to remind why it is one of the British capital's foremost hospitality destinations. Housed since 2013 in a gorgeous Edwardian-style structure on High Holborn Street near Covent Garden, the Rosewood London, like the city itself, truly amps up its game over the summer - and this summer is no exception. Among the property's true highlights is its exceptional dining scene— beloved by both discerning locals and hotel guests. The spectacular facade of the ultra luxurious Rosewood London. Rosewood London In celebration of Global Wellness Day Nathalie Schyllert and Ksenija Selivanova discuss health and wellness best practices at the Rosewood London. Erica Wertheim Zohar Known for its creative collabs, the Rosewood this summer unveils 'La Terrasse by Grey Goose' in its grand front courtyard. Now an annual summer tradition, past Rosewood pop ups have included La Veranda by Patron and Villa Minuty at Rosewood London (not to mention a recent winter pop up in conjunction with Ruinart Champagne). This summer's iteration is billed as 'an exclusive alfresco retreat, bringing the spirit of a French summer to the heart of London.' La Terrasse might not be enough to get you to cancel that trip to the South of France, but for hotel guests and Londoners alike it certainly provides a lovely escape, be it for a lunch or dinner of French cuisine, drinks featuring Grey Goose, or for any of the many events taking place there over the summer. I recently attended one such event celebrating Global Wellness Day which featured a breakfast in the summer terrace with Bodyism co-founder Nathalie Schyllert and a facial masterclass with author and founder of The Moments, Ksenija Selivanova. It was a gathering of London's most stylish women in a beautiful setting, all seeking to learn from these experts and to de-stress before starting a hectic day in the busy city. 'La Terrasse by Grey Goose' in the Rosewood London's grand front courtyard. Rosewood London Capturing the elegance of a French courtyard, La Terrasse features outdoor space adorned with white parasols, greenery, and stylish deep blue seating designed by Frederic Sofia and inspired by the iconic chairs found in Paris' Jardin du Luxembourg. The terrace is finished with matching blue awnings and classic shutters - achieving a modern take on classic French charm. The indoor restaurant at La Terrasse – set under a retractable roof with seating for up to 60 – is equally charming. The moules marinieres along with the signature drink the Spritz a la Peche – the perfect light summer cocktail - featuring Grey Goose, crème de peche, St. Germain, peach and jasmine soda. Rosewood London La Terrasse's menu, curated by Rosewood London's Executive Chef Fernando Corona in collaboration with the Holborn Dining Room's Head Chef Ilona Perczyk, is heavy on seafood, which is all sourced locally and caught daily. Highlights include the Dover sole meuniere, oysters, salad nicoise with confit tuna, and a trio of dishes that I tried - the moules marinieres, tiger prawns, and steak frites with Cafe de Paris butter. Tiger prawns is one of the highlights at La Terrasse. Erica Wertheim Zohar As delicious as the food was, however, the assortment of available Grey Goose signature cocktails was equally memorable – from the Mont Blanc Martini to the Zeste to the De Provence. My favorite was the Spritz a la Peche – the perfect light summer cocktail - featuring Grey Goose, crème de peche, St. Germain, peach and jasmine soda. Thanks to our wonderful waitress Sylvia, the 'Queen of the Terrace,' for pointing us in the right direction throughout our meal. The Great Wave off Kanagawa Rosewood London For those looking for a more traditionally British experience, Rosewood London has also recently unveiled its latest Art Afternoon Tea, a fantastic experience blending art, flavor, and culture, inspired by the renowned Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai. The experience in the hotel's Mirror Room begins with a selection of Japanese-themed savory bites. These include Japanese barbeque beef brisket and wasabi coleslaw sandwiches, sake marinated smoked salmon, and Japanese egg sandwiches. The experience in the hotel's Mirror Room begins with a selection of Japanese-themed savory bites. These include Japanese barbeque beef brisket and wasabi coleslaw sandwiches, sake marinated smoked salmon, and Japanese egg sandwiches. Erica Wertheim Zohar Next comes a round of sweet treats, created by Executive Pastry Chef Mark Perkins, the artistic talent behind the tea's offerings. This serving features Japanese Yuzu Cheesecake, served alongside freshly baked scones, Cornish clotted cream, homemade lemon curd, and English strawberry jam. The tea ends with the grand finale – the Art Cakes – celebrating three of Hokusai's most celebrated works: Cherry Blossom and Warbler (1827), The Great Wave off Kanagawa (1831), and Thunderstorm Beneath the Summit (1830-1834). Each cake is presented inside an edible outer shell that depicts the landscape of Hokusai's work. The results are truly works of art in their own right. The Art Cakes – celebrating three of Hokusai's most celebrated works: Cherry Blossom and Warbler (1827), The Great Wave off Kanagawa (1831), and Thunderstorm Beneath the Summit (1830-1834). Erica Wertheim Zohar Each course of the tea menu is accompanied by pairings of, well, tea. But not just any old tea – rather, an exclusive and extensive selection of mostly (but not exclusively) Japanese teas. The assortment of teas was nothing short of mindboggling, including various black, green, white, and yellow teas, as well as herbal, floral, and oolong teas, some very rare and unique, and each complete with a full description of its source, history, and characteristics. In short, the Art Afternoon Tea was over the top. Just be sure to arrive very hungry – and don't make dinner plans. Holborn Dining Room Seafood Counter by Faber featuring Ollie Bass & Ilona Perczyk. Rosewood London The Rosewood's most recent summer collab is its just-launched 'Seafood Counter' – an exclusive partnership with Ollie Bass, Executive Chef of the acclaimed, sustainability-focused restaurant Faber. Running throughout the summer, the Seafood Counter will reside in the center of the Rosewood's British brasserie, the Holborn Dining Room, and will showcase the very best of locally sourced British coastal ingredients, delivered directly from day boats and from trusted UK producers. Rosewood London's grand British brasserie, Holborn Dining Room, is pleased to introduce a new Seafood Counter in exclusive collaboration with Ollie Bass, Executive Chef of the sustainability- focused restaurant Faber. Rosewood London The counter will offer guests two ways to experience this coastal collaboration – via a la carte Faber dishes that will be available in the restaurant (including Maldon oysters, Chalkstream trout tartare, Dorset devilled crab, and John Dory) or via its eight- course British Shores Tasting Menu (which is also available with an optional English wine and drinks pairing). Each dish from the menu pays homage to the authentic tastes of the British coastline, from the farms of Pembrokeshire to the oyster beds of Essex. The tasting menu closes with a dessert of brown butter madeleines with dark chocolate, a traditional British seaside favorite. The cozy Scarfes Bar located in the Rosewood London with original art by Gerard Scarfe adorning the walls. Rosewood London If all that is not enough, guests at the Rosewood always have one of London's best bars to fall back on - Scarfes Bar. The charming Scarfes, known for its creative cocktails and nightly live music, has just unveiled its revamped drinks menu in time for summer - titled the Long Drawn Out Sip. The drinks are as delicious as they look and the bar's vibe makes it one of the hotspots in town. The entertaining menu at Scarfes Bar at the Roswood London. Erica Wertheim Zohar There are so many reasons why I fell in love with London this summer —wandering the colorful streets of Notting Hill, shopping at Selfridge's and the charming boutiques of Chelsea and Marylebone, taking in the incredible ABBA Voyage experience, Royal Ascot horse races and tennis tournaments - and somehow walking over 20,000 steps a day in the unseasonably warm weather. But what truly elevated the entire experience was returning each evening to the understated luxury and the hospitality of the Rosewood London.
Business Insider
30-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Business Insider
5 easy and delicious Ina Garten dishes you need to make this summer
Garten has delicious dishes for every season, and some of my favorite "Barefoot Contessa" recipes are perfect for summer. They can be enjoyed every month of the year, but I think you'll especially love them during the sunny season. From a cake that makes grown men weep to a pasta that will remind you of Italy, these are Garten's best summer dishes. Garten's breakfast cake is a stunning centerpiece, and it tastes even better than it looks. Every bite is super moist thanks to the ricotta and sour cream, and I love how the sweetness of the blueberries pairs with the zingy and bright lemon zest. I had my mom test it since Garten said it was perfect for Mother's Day, and she was a huge fan."This was superb," my mom declared. "I give it a 10/10."I loved how easy it was to make Garten's cake, and it still tasted incredible the next day. I've since made it for friends at a brunch party, and everyone couldn't get enough of the full recipe for Ina Garten's blueberry-ricotta breakfast cake here. And stay tuned for more "Barefoot Contessa" breakfast dishes to come. I loved Garten's watermelon cosmo even more than the original. To make four of Garten's watermelon cosmos at home, you'll need: 4 cups diced red watermelon 6 ounces good vodka (Ina recommends Grey Goose) 3 ounces Cointreau or triple sec 2 ounces freshly-squeezed lime juice (about 2 limes) 4 large mint sprigs, for garnish Before you start, Garten recommends throwing some martini glasses in the freezer for 30 minutes to chill them.I didn't have any martini glasses on hand, so I used wine glasses instead. I also found that 15 minutes in the freezer still did the trick. I always love serving a salad that's full of color, and Garten's Greek orzo salad has plenty. The pop of red from the bell pepper, the fresh green from the arugula, and the bright purple from the onion all worked together to make a beautiful plate. My parents definitely looked impressed as I brought the salad to the dinner table. But would it taste as good as it looked? My parents, who immigrated to the US from Greece, couldn't get enough of Garten's recipe. The orzo soaks up so many delicious Mediterranean flavors that are familiar to any Greek — the salty chunks of feta intertwining with the rich Kalamata olives, the crisp bell pepper and red onion dancing together, that pop of fresh lemon brightening every bite. Even though there were so many different components to the salad, everything was perfectly balanced. The light and refreshing salad is also really easy to make and still tastes great the next day. It's perfect for a barbecue side, or a main dish on a hot summer night (my dad recommends pairing it with some grilled meats or fish). My parents have already whipped up Garten's Greek orzo salad a couple of times since our last taste test, and I'm not surprised. The lovely dish tastes like something we would've eaten while watching the turquoise waves of the Aegean Sea during our summer trips back to Greece. "Ina must've been Greek in one of her previous lives," my mom declared. Garten's summer garden pasta takes full advantage of tomato season. Garten's summer garden pasta is one of her simplest, and yet it has some of the richest flavors of any that I've tried. While the "Barefoot Contessa" star's dish only has five main ingredients — angel hair, Parmesan cheese, cherry tomatoes, garlic, and basil — it has one very important step. You need to soak the tomatoes, garlic, and basil in olive oil for four hours. Garten's summer garden pasta is one of my favorite "Barefoot Contessa" recipes. I could honestly eat Garten's olive-oil tomatoes as a snack every day. And even though I usually love heavy red-sauce pastas, these tomatoes were able to carry the entire dish on just the strength of their intense and rich flavor. You also can't beat how pantry-friendly this dish is. I almost always have tomatoes and basil in my kitchen, making Garten's summer garden pasta an incredibly easy dinner staple. This is one "Barefoot Contessa" dish I know I'll be returning to time and time again. Get the full recipe for Ina Garten's summer garden pasta here. I was a cooking novice when the pandemic began, and it was Garten's recipes that first helped me get comfortable in the kitchen. I also hadn't tried baking anything for years. So I couldn't believe how fun and easy it was to make Garten's delicious mocha chocolate icebox cake, which she once proclaimed was so good "it makes grown men weep." I've wanted to make more "Barefoot Contessa" desserts ever since, and I knew the next one had to be Garten's most famous chocolate cake recipe. Garten's cake is ridiculously good. The layers have a satisfying, rich, buttery taste, and the cookies and mocha whipped cream go well together. There are also chocolate chips in almost every bite — who doesn't love that?Since no baking is required, Garten's mocha chocolate icebox cake is also perfect for those super-hot days when you don't want to turn on your oven. Plus, the recipe is easy enough to make with the family, but thanks to all those layers, it still looks impressive on the dinner table.I'd recommend this cake for just about anything — a birthday party, special dinner, or just the full recipe for Ina Garten's mocha chocolate icebox cake here.
Sydney Morning Herald
21-06-2025
- General
- Sydney Morning Herald
Rebuilding trust after rehab with uncertainty, love and scrambled eggs
I missed being silly. I missed the days of not having to cautiously ask Chris how he was. I missed our fantastic intimate romps. From our first date, we'd been fun and dirty and willing together. But then, pre-rehab, our sex life became more of a negotiation than a passion-filled affair – I wanted it way more than he did – and now we were four weeks into the whole sobriety thing. Loading The last time Chris had made a move on me, he was doing shots of Grey Goose. I wasn't sure if he desired me at all without the glittery booze effect, and how things would go in the bedroom. Was sober sex like the Diet Coke that now filled our fridge? Technically, the same but with none of the delicious bad bits? It wasn't just him I worried about either. My understanding of psych is pretty basic – it mostly revolves around believing happiness is a choice and you shouldn't let money, people or the past control you – but I knew the real issue was vulnerability. While I'd had moments trying to work out if it was better if I didn't still love him, what I also didn't know was if he still loved me or if I represented something punitive and bad. I'd spent the three weeks while he was away getting ready for his return, telling myself to be strong, embrace this fresh start. But now that he was home, my emotions were a tangled mess of relief, anger and uncertainty. And trust was going to be the hardest part. Trust, that fickle beast, wasn't just about believing Chris wasn't hiding booze in his wardrobe again. It was about letting myself be open to him – emotionally, physically, the whole package. And it was super terrifying. Because what if he didn't just f--- me, but f---ed me over again? Post-rehab, there's no 'congratulations, you can trust him again' certificate. There are no instructions about how to create honesty and fun. It's this weird, exhausting process where you're constantly weighing whether to believe what's in front of you or whether to believe what your mind tells you: Beware. Run! My profession required cynicism. I'd always tried to save it for work. But it had spilled over into everything else during those last few months before rehab when Chris had mastered the art of casual lying. So now we were like two opposing magnets, always circling each other but never quite connecting. One sticking point was that Chris was adamant he didn't need me to give up drinking, too. 'Thanks, I get it, you're being supportive, but Christ, I feel guilty enough already,' he said. 'I'm the one who has problems with alcohol. You shouldn't have to do anything different because of that. The world doesn't revolve around me.' Deciding not to drink wasn't me slipping into the role of martyr. Chris's rehab coincided with my own capacity for alcohol starting to wane. I'd have half a drink and feel gin blossoms firing up in my cheeks, feel weariness and a cyclical melancholy. And decades after first being a pest while drunk, I was still waking some mornings, worried about what I might have said or done the night before. I was sick of feeling like a try-hard old tragic. Time to break up with it, or at least save it for best. Days after Chris came home, it was our seventh wedding anniversary. We booked into a city hotel, met the kids for dinner, toasted ourselves with mocktails. We had a really good night. Our normal MO would probably have been to have a drink at a bar on our walk back to the hotel, but this time we bought ice-creams from an EzyMart. We put on hotel robes, looked at our phones for a while then lay down to do our annual hashing over of wedding hits and memories. His was seeing me in the doorway of the Fitzroy Town Hall in my Carla Zampatti dress, a son on each arm. I teased him that the first person he gave a shout-out to in his speech was Jay, and how he hoped to be as good a husband and father as him. We laughed about our honeymoon, when I was so off my gourd that I cooed over a couple of birds snuggled up on the darkened beach on our way home from dinner. 'Oh my God, penguins. Look!' They were seagulls. Trying to find the bathrooms at a Merimbula club, we saw the Elvis impersonator in a corridor, geeing himself up to the classic mash-up of A Space Odyssey and CC Rider. He clocked us, we waved, and during the show he hoiked one leg onto my chair singing Kentucky Rain, unrestrained cock and balls outlined clearly in his white jumpsuit. 'The wedding, the honeymoon, I was bursting with love,' Chris said. 'Like that feeling when you've eaten too much and you're uncomfortable but you keep eating because it tastes so good. It was so incredible, it was like it was happening to some other lucky bastard.' Seven years on, there was lots of sentiment but no sex or even flirting. Chris laid his arm across my waist. 'I feel like we're about a million years old,' he said. 'Like we're about to start playing bridge and looking at river cruise brochures.' Better than fighting over stupid shit caused by drunken chaos, I thought. Our conversation was dropping off a bit by then. We'd spent two years working and living in close proximity, so we had forensic knowledge of what the other had done that day. There were no stories to tell, although we did have a running conversation about whether to buy a set of Japanese knives and how long it was until Chris's long-service leave. During lockdowns, we pioneered afternoon Nude Chat Hour, in which we'd peel off our gear and hop onto our bed after work to just chat about nothing, try to make each other laugh. But even that was losing its gloss. Increasingly, our entertainment was outsourced to Netflix, maybe so we could avoid hashing over the big question. Was Chris an actual alcoholic or someone who was having problems with alcohol because of trauma and grief? Post-rehab, I'm still not sure he knew himself, although he hoped madly it was Door B. The hospital offered a virtual one-day class for families to help them on how to look after their loved ones and themselves. Yeah, I'll do it. I wanted clarity. By then, I'd read thousands of words online and sat in on a couple of Zoom Al Anon meetings. One was in Wales, so was at 10pm our time. It made me feel worse. Frustrated. Defeated. Women and children hunched around screens, a couple of men, all telling similar stories to what was happening at our place. 'The lies are endless.' 'I've given up caring.' 'He says he just wants to sit in a room with a bottle.' 'The children are scared. So am I. That I'll find him dead one day.' I'd expected to feel empathy with the other addicts' loved ones because we were in the same boat. Makes me sound shithouse, but I didn't. I could relate to what they were saying but the scope of the problem was so crushing and dreary. It felt like a problem nobody could solve. And it was always the same vague and unhelpful advice I'd read a thousand times online. Always all about setting boundaries and not enabling. But nobody was saying in exact terms how to actually do that and what the repercussions or benefits would be. Chris seemed to be doing things by the book – exercising, sleeping, eating properly – but you can't sugar-coat it. Living with an alcoholic is lonely. The constant worry. I was back to poking around in cupboards while he was in the shower. You look for lies all the time and often feel more mad than sad. Three weeks in, I walked into the kitchen and found him standing by the fridge with a carton of orange juice in his hand, taking a swig. Innocent, right? Except my brain screamed, What if he's hiding a flask in his dressing gown pocket? What if the juice is a decoy? 'We need more juice,' Chris said, smiling, oblivious to the inner interrogation I was conducting. Loading I smiled back, mouth like an envelope, like someone trying to pretend they weren't just imagining frisking their husband in a kitchen shakedown. 'Great, yeah. Juice is important.' It was absurd, and I knew it, but that didn't make it any easier to stop worrying he was covering up something. 'Darling,' I said one night over dinner. 'How do I know … you're really fine?' He looked at me like he hadn't realised I'd been holding this question in for weeks. 'What do you mean?' 'I mean … how do I trust that this is it? That you're not going to ...' I stopped myself before finishing the thought about relapse because even saying it out loud felt like inviting disaster. 'I don't know. I don't have a magic answer for that.' He put down his fork, leaned back in his chair. 'I'm not asking you to just trust me overnight. I get that it's going to take time. But I'm here. I'm not hiding anything from you.' I wanted to believe that. But it didn't make the doubt vanish, didn't erase the months of suspicion and fear that had become second nature to me. We did a lot of walking around Ocean Grove. Nothing says 'rebuilding trust' like two middle-aged people silently trudging down the footpath like they're re-enacting a sad indie movie. What I could give him was forgiveness. That was easy. The day he came home, the first thing I did was tell him that if we were to have a shot at repairing and rebuilding, I needed to forgive him for everything. So I did. What's the old line? 'Holding onto grudges is like eating poison and waiting for the other person to die.' Loading Let's start fresh. And I was so proud of the hard thing he'd done. Rebuilding trust was probably not going to be about waiting for some grand gesture or definitive proof that everything was OK, I realised. It was going to be about showing up every day, for both of us. And it was going to include that rekindling of our sex life, which had ground almost to a halt when antidepressants changed Chris's libido. Now he was off them. So despite my laundry list of concerns, I found myself … hopeful? Curious, even. After all, we'd made it through worse. Rehab, barracking for AFL teams who were traditional rivals, moving to a small town where we knew nobody. Chris wasn't perfect. Hell, neither was I. But maybe that's what made it work. I'd survived his vodka-fuelled misadventures, and now I was staring down the barrel of sober Chris. The Chris who wasn't hiding behind booze any more, wasn't shrouded in a cloud of shame or resentment. One night, we'd finished a salmon and broccoli dinner, gone to bed early, very polite and chaste with each other. I wanted so much for him to reach out for me. I was thinking about when we used to be effortlessly sexy, when it wasn't complicated by rehab or fear or John dying or the weight of everything we've been through. I turned to look at him. 'Baby?' 'Hmm?' He was about to fall asleep, a mile away on his own side of the bed. 'I miss us,' I said. I missed the laughter, the easy conversations, the way we used to tear each other's clothes off without a second thought. I missed the sex. God, I missed the sex. I missed him. He was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I'd said too much and he'd feel put upon. But then he rolled towards me. 'I miss us, too,' he said. He leaned in, kissed me. Tentatively. The clumsiness felt weird but OK. Maybe what we needed was to relearn each other. To take our time. 'I promise we'll stay married even if it kills us,' he said. Next morning, I woke to find Chris watering the citrus trees outside our bedroom. He's hardly ever awake before me. And there he was, barefoot, hosing like a man without a care in the world. I watched him, felt the mix of love and wariness that had become my constant companion. He saw me, gave a little wave. 'Want to go out for breakfast?' he said. I did. And it was terrific. That's the thing about trust. It's built on small moments like watering plants and eating scrambled eggs opposite each other. On little moments, day by day. It's not flashy or dramatic. It's sitting across a table, talking about nothing important.
The Age
21-06-2025
- General
- The Age
Rebuilding trust after rehab with uncertainty, love and scrambled eggs
I missed being silly. I missed the days of not having to cautiously ask Chris how he was. I missed our fantastic intimate romps. From our first date, we'd been fun and dirty and willing together. But then, pre-rehab, our sex life became more of a negotiation than a passion-filled affair – I wanted it way more than he did – and now we were four weeks into the whole sobriety thing. Loading The last time Chris had made a move on me, he was doing shots of Grey Goose. I wasn't sure if he desired me at all without the glittery booze effect, and how things would go in the bedroom. Was sober sex like the Diet Coke that now filled our fridge? Technically, the same but with none of the delicious bad bits? It wasn't just him I worried about either. My understanding of psych is pretty basic – it mostly revolves around believing happiness is a choice and you shouldn't let money, people or the past control you – but I knew the real issue was vulnerability. While I'd had moments trying to work out if it was better if I didn't still love him, what I also didn't know was if he still loved me or if I represented something punitive and bad. I'd spent the three weeks while he was away getting ready for his return, telling myself to be strong, embrace this fresh start. But now that he was home, my emotions were a tangled mess of relief, anger and uncertainty. And trust was going to be the hardest part. Trust, that fickle beast, wasn't just about believing Chris wasn't hiding booze in his wardrobe again. It was about letting myself be open to him – emotionally, physically, the whole package. And it was super terrifying. Because what if he didn't just f--- me, but f---ed me over again? Post-rehab, there's no 'congratulations, you can trust him again' certificate. There are no instructions about how to create honesty and fun. It's this weird, exhausting process where you're constantly weighing whether to believe what's in front of you or whether to believe what your mind tells you: Beware. Run! My profession required cynicism. I'd always tried to save it for work. But it had spilled over into everything else during those last few months before rehab when Chris had mastered the art of casual lying. So now we were like two opposing magnets, always circling each other but never quite connecting. One sticking point was that Chris was adamant he didn't need me to give up drinking, too. 'Thanks, I get it, you're being supportive, but Christ, I feel guilty enough already,' he said. 'I'm the one who has problems with alcohol. You shouldn't have to do anything different because of that. The world doesn't revolve around me.' Deciding not to drink wasn't me slipping into the role of martyr. Chris's rehab coincided with my own capacity for alcohol starting to wane. I'd have half a drink and feel gin blossoms firing up in my cheeks, feel weariness and a cyclical melancholy. And decades after first being a pest while drunk, I was still waking some mornings, worried about what I might have said or done the night before. I was sick of feeling like a try-hard old tragic. Time to break up with it, or at least save it for best. Days after Chris came home, it was our seventh wedding anniversary. We booked into a city hotel, met the kids for dinner, toasted ourselves with mocktails. We had a really good night. Our normal MO would probably have been to have a drink at a bar on our walk back to the hotel, but this time we bought ice-creams from an EzyMart. We put on hotel robes, looked at our phones for a while then lay down to do our annual hashing over of wedding hits and memories. His was seeing me in the doorway of the Fitzroy Town Hall in my Carla Zampatti dress, a son on each arm. I teased him that the first person he gave a shout-out to in his speech was Jay, and how he hoped to be as good a husband and father as him. We laughed about our honeymoon, when I was so off my gourd that I cooed over a couple of birds snuggled up on the darkened beach on our way home from dinner. 'Oh my God, penguins. Look!' They were seagulls. Trying to find the bathrooms at a Merimbula club, we saw the Elvis impersonator in a corridor, geeing himself up to the classic mash-up of A Space Odyssey and CC Rider. He clocked us, we waved, and during the show he hoiked one leg onto my chair singing Kentucky Rain, unrestrained cock and balls outlined clearly in his white jumpsuit. 'The wedding, the honeymoon, I was bursting with love,' Chris said. 'Like that feeling when you've eaten too much and you're uncomfortable but you keep eating because it tastes so good. It was so incredible, it was like it was happening to some other lucky bastard.' Seven years on, there was lots of sentiment but no sex or even flirting. Chris laid his arm across my waist. 'I feel like we're about a million years old,' he said. 'Like we're about to start playing bridge and looking at river cruise brochures.' Better than fighting over stupid shit caused by drunken chaos, I thought. Our conversation was dropping off a bit by then. We'd spent two years working and living in close proximity, so we had forensic knowledge of what the other had done that day. There were no stories to tell, although we did have a running conversation about whether to buy a set of Japanese knives and how long it was until Chris's long-service leave. During lockdowns, we pioneered afternoon Nude Chat Hour, in which we'd peel off our gear and hop onto our bed after work to just chat about nothing, try to make each other laugh. But even that was losing its gloss. Increasingly, our entertainment was outsourced to Netflix, maybe so we could avoid hashing over the big question. Was Chris an actual alcoholic or someone who was having problems with alcohol because of trauma and grief? Post-rehab, I'm still not sure he knew himself, although he hoped madly it was Door B. The hospital offered a virtual one-day class for families to help them on how to look after their loved ones and themselves. Yeah, I'll do it. I wanted clarity. By then, I'd read thousands of words online and sat in on a couple of Zoom Al Anon meetings. One was in Wales, so was at 10pm our time. It made me feel worse. Frustrated. Defeated. Women and children hunched around screens, a couple of men, all telling similar stories to what was happening at our place. 'The lies are endless.' 'I've given up caring.' 'He says he just wants to sit in a room with a bottle.' 'The children are scared. So am I. That I'll find him dead one day.' I'd expected to feel empathy with the other addicts' loved ones because we were in the same boat. Makes me sound shithouse, but I didn't. I could relate to what they were saying but the scope of the problem was so crushing and dreary. It felt like a problem nobody could solve. And it was always the same vague and unhelpful advice I'd read a thousand times online. Always all about setting boundaries and not enabling. But nobody was saying in exact terms how to actually do that and what the repercussions or benefits would be. Chris seemed to be doing things by the book – exercising, sleeping, eating properly – but you can't sugar-coat it. Living with an alcoholic is lonely. The constant worry. I was back to poking around in cupboards while he was in the shower. You look for lies all the time and often feel more mad than sad. Three weeks in, I walked into the kitchen and found him standing by the fridge with a carton of orange juice in his hand, taking a swig. Innocent, right? Except my brain screamed, What if he's hiding a flask in his dressing gown pocket? What if the juice is a decoy? 'We need more juice,' Chris said, smiling, oblivious to the inner interrogation I was conducting. Loading I smiled back, mouth like an envelope, like someone trying to pretend they weren't just imagining frisking their husband in a kitchen shakedown. 'Great, yeah. Juice is important.' It was absurd, and I knew it, but that didn't make it any easier to stop worrying he was covering up something. 'Darling,' I said one night over dinner. 'How do I know … you're really fine?' He looked at me like he hadn't realised I'd been holding this question in for weeks. 'What do you mean?' 'I mean … how do I trust that this is it? That you're not going to ...' I stopped myself before finishing the thought about relapse because even saying it out loud felt like inviting disaster. 'I don't know. I don't have a magic answer for that.' He put down his fork, leaned back in his chair. 'I'm not asking you to just trust me overnight. I get that it's going to take time. But I'm here. I'm not hiding anything from you.' I wanted to believe that. But it didn't make the doubt vanish, didn't erase the months of suspicion and fear that had become second nature to me. We did a lot of walking around Ocean Grove. Nothing says 'rebuilding trust' like two middle-aged people silently trudging down the footpath like they're re-enacting a sad indie movie. What I could give him was forgiveness. That was easy. The day he came home, the first thing I did was tell him that if we were to have a shot at repairing and rebuilding, I needed to forgive him for everything. So I did. What's the old line? 'Holding onto grudges is like eating poison and waiting for the other person to die.' Loading Let's start fresh. And I was so proud of the hard thing he'd done. Rebuilding trust was probably not going to be about waiting for some grand gesture or definitive proof that everything was OK, I realised. It was going to be about showing up every day, for both of us. And it was going to include that rekindling of our sex life, which had ground almost to a halt when antidepressants changed Chris's libido. Now he was off them. So despite my laundry list of concerns, I found myself … hopeful? Curious, even. After all, we'd made it through worse. Rehab, barracking for AFL teams who were traditional rivals, moving to a small town where we knew nobody. Chris wasn't perfect. Hell, neither was I. But maybe that's what made it work. I'd survived his vodka-fuelled misadventures, and now I was staring down the barrel of sober Chris. The Chris who wasn't hiding behind booze any more, wasn't shrouded in a cloud of shame or resentment. One night, we'd finished a salmon and broccoli dinner, gone to bed early, very polite and chaste with each other. I wanted so much for him to reach out for me. I was thinking about when we used to be effortlessly sexy, when it wasn't complicated by rehab or fear or John dying or the weight of everything we've been through. I turned to look at him. 'Baby?' 'Hmm?' He was about to fall asleep, a mile away on his own side of the bed. 'I miss us,' I said. I missed the laughter, the easy conversations, the way we used to tear each other's clothes off without a second thought. I missed the sex. God, I missed the sex. I missed him. He was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I'd said too much and he'd feel put upon. But then he rolled towards me. 'I miss us, too,' he said. He leaned in, kissed me. Tentatively. The clumsiness felt weird but OK. Maybe what we needed was to relearn each other. To take our time. 'I promise we'll stay married even if it kills us,' he said. Next morning, I woke to find Chris watering the citrus trees outside our bedroom. He's hardly ever awake before me. And there he was, barefoot, hosing like a man without a care in the world. I watched him, felt the mix of love and wariness that had become my constant companion. He saw me, gave a little wave. 'Want to go out for breakfast?' he said. I did. And it was terrific. That's the thing about trust. It's built on small moments like watering plants and eating scrambled eggs opposite each other. On little moments, day by day. It's not flashy or dramatic. It's sitting across a table, talking about nothing important.
